


Discourses on the Limits of Acceptable Behaviors

by dualce



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is a dancing slave girl, Facepalm, I can't not, M/M, Pre-Slash, inspired by Saucery, pseudo-historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dualce/pseuds/dualce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why anyone would chose a saloon as a meeting place for scholarly discourse, Stiles can't fathom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discourses on the Limits of Acceptable Behaviors

**Author's Note:**

> A short mini-fill inspired by [Saucery's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery) [posting](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/31591411743/pilgrimkitty-paradoxicaldickery-gonna-find) of a pseudo-historical Derek with kohl eyes, because I CAN'T NOT.
> 
> (also I don't know what I'm doing, SORRY.) 
> 
> (I almost called this 'Discourses on Boners' because clearly that is what's happening.)
> 
> (...should I keep going with this?)

Why anyone would chose a saloon as a meeting place for scholarly discourse, Stiles can't fathom. The air is rich with perfume, every inhale biting sourly at the back of his throat, and the embellishments are few, mostly dilapidated curtains hanging around the stage. They don't do much for sprucing up the place, but they do cover up some of the stained, cracked walls, so that's something.

And apparently the bartender pours a good drink, although at Stiles' friendly grin, the man shakes his head and places a glass of lukewarm rose water in front of him.

Figures. Even though his treatise _Relating to Matter and Spirit_ is one of the most quoted documents in the last decade, he _still_ can't get no respect.

Stiles takes a sip of his rose water and turns around to find his colleagues. They're huddled in one of the tabled booths towards the side of the stage, well away from some of the more... _interesting_ (read: dangerous) characters who frequent the saloon, and already animated discussing something. They don't even seem aware of the half-naked women swaying on the stage, slender thighs flashing through layers of fabric and hands curving at the wrist, following the resonating trill of a plucky setar.

Not that Stiles was all that interested, nuh uh. Unless one of the dancers is a strawberry-blonde goddess, then count him out.

The thought made him squint his eyes at the stage, just in case the Lady Lydia happened to be playing at being a plebeian again, this time choosing to be a desperate-half-naked-probably-a-slave-or-at-least- indentured-dancer-girl-prostitute. 

Yeah, probably not.

But still, better than the extremely built girl with short hair, moving to the front of the stage as the other, prettier girls drifted off to the side.

Wait. That wasn't a girl.

Stiles gripped his drink tighter and watched as the man stared out at the crowd, kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed and mouth turned down in a grimace. Not a sexy grimace, either. Stiles would feel the same if he was forced to wear a skirt and pretty much nothing else and dance around in front of a group of sneering patrons, but this guy was -

His shoulders curved forward and his head dropped as the music started up, and then he arched his back and his hips snapped up, stomach muscles rippling and eyes glittering a brilliant, brief blue. His hands played with his skirt, shifting it as he stamped his feet in rhythm with the setar to reveal the arch of a pale, muscular thigh. Then he was whirling, fabric sweeping out in a fan around him, raising his arms - god, muscles again, muscles _everywhere_ \- until he came to a stop, back to the main room

Stiles watched the dancer swing his hips back and forth, black skirt low on his waist. Not quite low enough to reveal what was probably the most amazing ass in existence, and Stiles swallowed, mouth dry. He took a sip of his rose water, and then another, and then drained it dry as the dancer arched his back, looking over a broad shoulder, and Stiles got another glimpse of those intense eyes.

Eyes that seemed to be staring _at_ him, catching him, binding him like the ribbons that were trailing from his wrists. 

The he looked away, glaring in someone else's direction, and Stiles sagged against the bar, his breath rushing back to him.

"Another," Stiles croaked, fumbling his empty glass onto the bar, not bothering to turn around lest he miss any of this wondrous gift the gods had decided to bestow upon him. Behind him the bartender snorted, and another warm glass slide into his hand.

The dancer rolled his hips, hands toying briefly with the necklace that hung low on his chest, the charm that dangled from it acting like an arrow pointing down his flat stomach to his, uh. Skirt. Yeah. His hand was following the same direction and was now tracing the curve of skin above the edge of his skirt.

The crowd perked up, calls and whoops echoing in the dim saloon, and Stiles swallowed again.

Deciding to hold the meeting in this saloon was officially the best idea ever.


End file.
